Love Like This
by Light-The-Pages-Of-History
Summary: The Amis are students who stage protests as the totally anonymous Les Amis Art Collective. When Combeferre invites a new musician to join the group, Enjolras can't understand how the newcomer could possibly fit in, but the Collective are about to stage their biggest project yet and the what plays out is very different to what he's expected (T for future possibilities?)


**AN: Don't be mad, I know my other fic isn't complete but I have a very hectic mind and I need to get this out there before it disappears ;) I'm very excited about the Collective idea and can't wait to update, please be patient if I'm slow. Big love to everyone who comments and follows 3**

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It appears that today is going to be one of those days. It's not even eight o' clock in the morning yet and he's already cross and irritated, jiggling his foot impatiently as he waits for the métro. Enjolras doesn't have _those days _but today his alarm didn't go off at five like he'd set it for, he couldn't find his house keys, his roommate was nowhere to be found despite ten minutes of angry texting and calling and all this has conspired to make him miss his train into the city. Enjolras is _never _late.

He checks his watch for what feels like the hundredth time and then jumps to his feet when he hears the low rumble of his train. There is a surge forward as the métro train rolls to a grinding halt and people pile into the carriages. Enjolras leans against the grab rail, flicking through emails on his smart phone and sipping his coffee, trying not to mind that someone's briefcase is digging into the backs of his legs and the scent of twenty different colognes combined with sweat and smoke is making him feel queasy. He closes his eyes against the crush of people thinking that if _he had only gotten the earlier train HE WOULD NOT HAVE THIS PROBLEM. _

He glances up when he hears a noise from the other end of the carriage. Crammed into the far corner are two guys, probably in their early twenties, one of whom has started tapping a beat on his bag. The second man has a saxophone dangling around his neck and he's watching the Tapping Guy intently, following his beat, but for the briefest second he glances up and makes eye contact with Enjolras. Enjolras gasps audibly. This is absolutely ridiculous. This is not a film. Shit like this does not happen on the métro at eight o' clock in the morning. But those _eyes. _The man with the saxophone has the most beautiful, piercing blue eyes and Enjolras _cannot look away. _Just like that, the moment is gone; the Saxophone Man lifts his instrument to his lips and starts to play.

_Take Five _erupts from the sax and people start to cheer and clap along to the impromptu concert. Enjolras can only stand there and stare. The saxophone man has wild, curly, dark hair, crammed under a green knit beanie. He's wearing jeans, ripped at the knee, and a green plaid shirt the exact colour of his hat. His fingers fly over the keys of the sax and his lips curve around the mouth piece in a smile as he enters into a mad improv, standing to face the rest of the travellers. It comes to an end just as the train reaches Enjolras' stop. Saxophone Man takes a bow and grins at his friend. Enjolras manages to pull himself out of his reverie in time to actually disembark and stumble onto the platform. He shakes his head a couple of times. He has no idea what just happened but he cannot for the life of him get the image of Saxophone Man's blue eyes out of his mind. Enjolras does not get like this. He does not fall in love with the eyes of strange métro performers when he is having A Terrible Morning and he is in a rush to get his meeting. And he _certainly _does not leave the station by the wrong exit because he is recalling the way Saxophone Man didn't just play with his hands and mouth, but with his whole body.

He is over an hour late by the time he makes it to the studio. He fishes the massive old key out of the pocket of his pea coat and grapples with the door, kicking it a few times before it opens to reveal a scarily narrow wooden staircase which leads to the first floor. The studio is located in a small side street in the 11th arrondisement and it's a pretty grim building if he's being honest. Graffiti adorns the metal shutter covering the pharmacy over which they're situated. The buildings on either side of the street were probably beautiful at some point, tall with majestic windows, but in this street they just look tired and unloved. He slams the door behind him and sprints up the stairs, pushing through the door directly opposite the stairwell.

'SURPRISE!'

Enjolras is promptly tackled to the floor, a conical party hat spearing him in the face as he lands on his arse on the hardwood floor.

'JESUS COURFEYRAC WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!'

Because of course, only Courfeyrac would tackle you to the floor whilst wearing a party hat. Enjolras struggles up and takes in the scene. The studio is bedecked in bunting and tinsel with confetti strewn ubiquitously across the floor. The others are standing along the barre, also wearing party hats, and there is food spread across the top of the upright piano in the corner.

'IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY ENJOLRAS!' Courfeyrac announces, and proceeds to kiss his cheeks rather a lot, only backing off when Enjolras actually growls. He gets to his feet and glares at the others.

'I _told _you guys, we don't have time for this. We still have to run through the demonstration choreography and I _know _that Courf hasn't finished the lighting sequence yet - ' Enjolras is cut off by Jehan shoving a piece of cake in his face.

'Stop. Right now. You'll make Courfeyrac cry,' warns Jehan, and he may be tiny but nobody messes with Jehan when he uses his warning voice. Enjolras continues to glower but accepts the proffered paper plate and joins the others around the piano to eat. Bahorel made the cake, and he's in his final year of culinary school, so it's absolutely beautiful, even Enjolras will grudgingly admit it. Courfeyrac has calmed down but still forces everyone to put on party hats. Feuilly is there too, chatting to Marius about the latest installation he's working on, Éponine and Cosette are sitting on the windowsill and Bossuet and Joly are laughing together. They're all here.

Enjolras is twenty one today.

'Wait this is why my alarm didn't go off and my keys were mysteriously missing and Combeferre wasn't picking up his phone?' Enjolras suddenly clocks, wiping up the last of the cake crumbs. Jehan actually giggles. Combeferre bites back a smile.

'You little shits.'

Cosette jumps down to noisily kiss his cheek and they all cackle with laughter.

'You wouldn't have it any other way,' she tells him teasingly.

Enjolras can be cold and mechanical and almost dictatorial when he wants to be and he hates unnecessary fuss and frivolity. But Cosette is right, of course. He wouldn't.

The Les Amis Art Collective is, of course, the brainchild of Enjolras. He was in his final year studying law with socio-economics and one of his main motives for studying in Paris was the city's activism scene and, finding the student activism society inadequate for his grand plans, he set up his own. It started off as a poorly organised group of teenagers who would meet in the backroom of a local bar, the Musain, to be riled into a frantic ball of passion by Enjolras and then get drunk and stumble home.

It was only when Combeferre became involved that the society really took off. With proper organisation, they were able to leaflet and attend rallies and Enjolras started to set up his own projects in the city. After realising that Enjolras was serious about the society, students started to drop out. Most of them, after all, were only attending to make up extra credits. What remained was the core of the group; eleven students with diverse skills who, like Enjolras, were filled with a fervent passion to affect change.

Feuilly was studying graphic design and fine art. He smoked like a chimney and spent a lot of time holed up in a darkened studio, appearing at meetings in a paint stained overall, undone and with the arms tied around his waist. Courfeyrac was studying theatre and, along with Bahorel, had a side interest in DJing and music technology. The amount of computer equipment that they owned between them was second only to Marius. A computing student, Marius was astonishingly clever. No one really understood what he meant when he talked about coding but his skills when it came to programming were second to none. Jehan was a literature student. He was ethereal and delicate at first glance but was fiercely passionate about what he believed in. Joly, like Combeferre, was a medical student with acute hypochondria and the most infectious laugh of the whole group. His boyfriend, Bossuet waited tables at an expensive restaurant in the city whilst studying social work.

Then there was Éponine and Cosette.

Cosette had straight, golden hair that fell to her waist in a glistening waterfall and Éponine had thick, brunette curls that she was perpetually doing battle with. Cosette was a classically trained ballerina, tiny and gentle but stronger than almost all of them. She's been dating Marius for almost six months and with an undergraduate degree in law almost under her belt, she had already been accepted on to the postgraduate international law and political science program. Éponine was trained in just about every style of dance but her passion was street. She trained around ten hours a week, as well as working part time and taking night classes to pass the entry exam for nursing. Although they were as in different in appearance and passions as it was possible to be, the two shared a bond that ran deeper than friendship and every time they danced together, two genres colliding it what should be a catastrophic eyesore, Jehan swore that magic happened.

With all the passion and politics and art and music that was simmering in their midst, it only made sense that all of these things combined into one, massive project, headed by Enjolras, administered by Combeferre and sustained by the drawing together of all of their individual talents – the Les Amis Art Collective was born.

Ten minutes in and Enjolras is laughing and eating along with all the others. People gravitate towards him, he has always had this quality about him, and so they are gathered in a loose semi-circle around him, cracking jokes about how he's getting too old to be leading art collectives in a fight against oppression. No one hears the door open so they all jump when someone clears their throat loudly. Enjolras looks up and instantly goes rigid, eyes wide. It's the saxophonist from the métro. Here. In the studio. The Saxophone Man shifts awkwardly, knocking his battered case against his legs.

'Hi,' he says, pulling off his beanie and wringing it in one hand. 'Combeferre asked me to come over?' He looks straight at Enjolras, eyes widening slightly but not belying his surprise at seeing the statuesque blond again in this context. Not taking his eyes off Enjolras, Saxophone Man speaks again.

'I'm Grantaire.'


End file.
